It shouldn’t have been anything worth writing home about that I was, in fact, headed over to the place that had formerly been my childhood home. Except that it was, and that getting there pretty much necessitated a covert action on my part.
Not outwardly, considering that the Mustang was loud enough to wake the dead, as Lauren had proclaimed more than once. I’m sure it had been a compliment. But that car was my safety blanket, a yellow and black testament to the charisma that typically oozed out of my pores but seemed in short supply today. I needed it there, a not-so-silent companion to remind me of who I was, even if my mother chose to knock me down one or two notches. Plus, if I had to get the hell out of dodge as quickly as possible, it was more than capable of complying.
I’d tossed and turned most of the night, thinking about the things that Lauren had put into motion. Good intentions on her part for sure, but they’d left me with a giant conundrum. In the back of my mind, I’d always known that the possibility of this happening had been there. My father’s wrath was the one that had ruled the roost, pushing me out of the family, while my mother’s intentions had never been made clear. Until now.
Lauren had been beside herself with guilt, a fact she’d done her best to keep hidden. She sucked at it, though, because it had been written all over her face, displayed in her body language, it permeated the walls of our home. I regretted ever putting her in the position of having to deal with the consequences of my actions.
So I had pretended to fall asleep, her body wedged against me like we were puzzle pieces interlocking. She’d believed the ruse, suffering in torment as quietly as possible. As much as I wanted to comfort her, run my fingers along her jawline, I refrained. Any indication that I was still awake would cause her to launch into another round of apologies, and I didn’t need those. I needed time to sort out things in my own head.
Instead, I’d opted to squeeze her tighter, something that could be explained away as a reflex. Eventually, she’d succumbed to exhaustion, her body releasing its tension muscle by muscle, cluing me in.
And then the planning had begun in earnest. By the time the alarm sounded hours later, I had a course of action mapped out in my head. Afraid of putting it into words, I’d merely told my wife that I was dealing with it today. Equally scared of verbalizing her fears, she’d simply nodded.
We’d held each other a bit longer before leaving for work this morning. I’d placed my hands on either side of her face, stared into her eyes, and attempted to tell her everything she needed to know without speaking. Then I’d bent my forehead down to meet our daughter’s and tried to give Sadie the same promise.
I wouldn’t fuck this up.
I couldn’t fuck this up.
Yet I felt like a dead man walking as I drove the familiar streets back to my parents’ house. Even though I hadn’t been in this particular direction for well over a decade, I knew this area of town like the back of my hand. Hell, I practically still lived in this exact area of town. I’d merely cut an addition or two out of my travel itinerary since I’d unceremoniously left, refusing to even drive past the entrance to the neighborhood.
And what a neighborhood it was. Once one of the most exclusive subdivisions in the greater Fort Wayne area - that had been the reason Alan Snyder built here - it no longer reigned supreme, but was still highly respected in the list of most desirable locations. Houses that most people could never dream of affording without possessing a winning lottery ticket were sprinkled along a golf course that hosted professional caliber tournaments.
I felt like an intruder, an imposter, as I weaved my ostentatious car past the breathtaking architecture. Being the middle of the afternoon, the streets were empty, devoid of children or adults alike. Kids were still at school, executives still with hours left at work, kept women likely gathered at the community pool or inside their climate controlled palaces.
The timing had been on purpose. No way in hell would I stop by when my father had the potential of being home. With his work ethic, I would probably be safe visiting anytime before ten at night, but why tempt fate? I was showing up unannounced, not waiting for my mother to contact Lauren again, not choosing to dial the phone number that I couldn’t help but recite from years of claiming it as my own.
Patricia Barrett Snyder had requested my presence and like the dutiful son I had once been, here I was.
The house still looked the same. A contemporary showpiece, nestled into a cul-de-sac at the back of the addition, still on the main drag. It practically announced that you had arrived, that this was what you’d been waiting for. That you had been rewarded for not turning down one of the side streets and missing the view. A structure of wood and concrete as pretentious as those who owned it.
No wonder Chris had always hated coming over here. I could see it through different eyes now, several years removed from the numbness of living here myself. This was a museum, not a real person’s residence. I half expected someone to jump out from behind the mailbox and charge me admission.
I parked the Mustang in my old spot, the place the Camaro used to frequent so long ago. If I closed my eyes, I could envision where Blake’s Civic would be found, then later her Mercedes. Randomly, I wondered what had happened when she’d returned the luxury car upon disowning herself. Had our father kept it for a while, or sold it just as quickly and ruthlessly as he had my convertible?
Was it as easy to forget you had a son and a daughter as it was to sign off on a car title?
I killed the engine and sat in my car for a minute, composing myself. For some reason, I flipped down the visor and stared into the vanity mirror, trying to give myself a pep talk. The scruffiness was gone. My contacts were in, exposing the blue eyes that had convinced a fair amount of women to drop their inhibitions and their pants. The stubble that Lauren preferred had been freshly shaved. For all intents and purposes, I looked like I was eighteen again. Subconsciously, I knew exactly why I’d done that.
A giant deep breath later, I threw open the car door and stepped outside. My pulse thundered in my ears. My legs moved me to the door, even though it felt like I was hovering outside my body, watching the scene transpire like it was from some horror movie. I wanted to scream at myself, tell myself not to ring the damn doorbell, but the flesh and blood me did anyway.
Funny that I was reduced to ringing the doorbell to a house that I had unlocked so many times before without a second thought. Now I stood on the front porch, pacing from side to side as I waited for recognition from someone inside.
Maybe she wasn’t home. Perhaps she was still one of those ladies who lunched. Or she was getting her hair done, or her nails, or touching up the cosmetic surgery that Lauren had alluded to. If this visit was all for naught, I wasn’t sure that I’d come back. This might be a one time deal. I wasn’t certain my nerves could take a repeat performance.
Just when I was about to turn around and go back to work, I heard the deadbolt lock snap open. I watched in slow motion as the doorknob turned, rooted to my position like I was wearing cement shoes and sinking fast. Even if I’d wanted to turn tail and run, my limbs weren’t capable.
The response from the other side of the door was equally comical, had it been occurring in that movie in my head, between fake characters and not happening in my own life. My mother’s eyes blinked rapidly, as if attempting to clear her vision. I studied her, trapped in my own silent hell, taking in the changes that the years had produced.
There weren’t that many, to be honest. The Botox had seen to that, keeping her frozen youth intact. And she did look like a mirror image of Blake, had my sister been fashioned out of plastic and collagen. I preferred the unretouched model, but I understood the concept my mother was going for.
I had run from the past, leaving it far behind me, while she had clung to it tooth and nail, refusing to accept that anything had evolved.
And standing before her, looking like I did now, it was almost impossible to tell that it hadn’t been more than a day or two since I
’d packed up my stuff and vanished completely from her life. Not like she had protested, or tried to stop it, but either way it no longer mattered.
“Matthew,” she breathed.
Her voice. It was the same as in my memories. From happier times, when I was too young to disappoint. The tone that wrapped around lullabies and bedtime stories and assured me that a mother’s love would always be there. That voice had lied terribly. Or had it?
“Mom?”
It was a stupid thing to say. Obviously, it could only be her. But it wasn’t the word as much as the sentiment behind it that caused my voice to break, my throat constricting around the syllable with pent up tears and emotion.
“Come in,” she instructed, pushing open the glass storm door to allow me entrance.
On wobbly legs, I stepped inside the foyer, viewing it with virgin eyes. Barely inside the property, I screeched to a halt, my actions seeking her permission on where to go next.
“I was just having some coffee,” she explained. “There’s a fresh pot brewing. Let’s go into the kitchen.”
Finally some instruction. I nodded, allowing her to lead me into the space that I knew all too well. I waited for her to take a seat on one of the barstools tucked under the island. Once she had, I pulled out the stool opposite her so we could look across the countertop at each other.
She busied herself with getting me coffee. Her actions were just as nervous as mine. Her hand shook as she poured my cup, the hot liquid splashing over the side of the ceramic mug and pooling on the granite beneath. A tiny laugh escaped her lips as she replaced the coffee pot and grabbed a towel to whisk away the mess. When the spill had been cleaned to her satisfaction, she slid the cup across to me.
I reached out for the mug to avoid any further incident. Her fingers deliberately brushed mine during the handoff. She needed to touch me, to make sure I wasn’t a figment of her imagination. Convinced I was really there, she jerked away.
“You saw Lauren yesterday,” I began. It wasn’t a question.
My coffee became a prop. I took a sip even though I wasn’t thirsty, peering at her from over the cup.
“I did,” she confirmed.
“Why?”
Damn, was this conversation painful. We were barely communicating on a level above cavemen grunts. This woman had carried me inside her for nine months, and here I was treating this like it was a job interview and I’d just met her.
“Because I was tired, Matthew. Tired of keeping up this charade. Tired of following the lives of my own children like they were celebrities that I’ve never met. Tired of scouring the newspapers or the internet for snippets of things that you were doing. I wanted to see for myself.”
“Well, here I am.”
“I appreciate it. And I’m honestly surprised that you’re here.”
“That makes two of us,” I admitted.
I’m pretty sure she smiled.
“But no Blake.” The disappointment was evident. She’d wanted the package deal.
“Blake doesn’t know yet.”
She took a deep breath and nodded. “You were always protective of your sister. Some things never change.”
“The feeling’s mutual. I owe her more than one, for what she’s done for me.”
What Blake had sacrificed didn’t need to be said. We both knew it. She’d wrenched the silver spoon from her mouth, leaving it in the vicinity of my father’s office prior to packing up the barest of essentials and walking out of our parents’ lives seemingly forever.
“So the screening process then. I suppose I deserve that.”
“If I can save her from any more pain than she’s already gone through, then that’s the path I’ll always choose to take. She’s gone through enough on my account.”
“The choices she made were her own.”
“Some. Not all.”
My mother took her own drink, contemplating my careful word selection. She might look like a Barbie doll, might never have lifted a finger to perform manual labor in her life, but she wasn’t ignorant.
“Your wife was also cryptic when it came to the story of Blake. More or less told me that it wasn’t her place to clue me in.”
“Lauren’s instincts are correct. Blake’s gone through some things that were difficult for her to reveal to anyone, let alone someone who doesn’t appear to be in her corner. For me to betray that confidence without her permission would be unforgivable. It’s a conversation that she needs to have with you, when and if she so chooses.”
“So what can you disclose? About the both of you besides that which can be obtained from wedding and birth announcements?”
“Blake owns her own interior design business. She and Chris ended up getting married this past winter, after a lengthy period of silent treatment.
“Me? I’m in management now. You’ve met Lauren. Seen pictures of Sadie. We live in the house I bought when I moved out of here. You’d never recognize it though, even if you had bothered to care enough to visit back then. Blake did a fabulous job of gutting it and overhauling it while I was in jail and she lived there because she had no other place to go.”
I hadn’t meant for it to come out as that much of a dig, but I wasn’t totally upset that it had. And just like that, the advantage had swung over to me. The ball was firmly in my court.
“You’re both happy then?”
“Yeah, we’re both good.” My remark was flippant, no more meaningful than the response I would have provided to the cashier at the grocery store who questioned how my day was going. Good. Period. End of story.
“I’m glad for that then. For what it’s worth, I never wanted things to turn out poorly for either one of you.”
“For what it’s worth, they didn’t. Despite all the obstacles in our way, some self-inflicted, some passed down from those that were supposed to love us unconditionally.”
I waited for the scolding that should have been imminent. Instead, I was gifted with only a sigh. It spoke volumes, really. Either she was admitting her guilt or she was allowing me to vent without repercussions.
“So what does your husband think about the extension of the olive branch?” I pressed. I wasn’t about to claim him as my father yet; hell, it had nearly gagged me to call her my mother.
Her silence told me everything. The shift in her eyes to the countertop confirmed it. Alan Snyder didn’t know.
“Why would you do this?” I asked. I really was curious. “Why would you risk everything for the possibility of a reunion now? You know he’ll be pissed when he finds out. What makes you think that he won’t cut you out of his life like he did Blake and me?”
“I’ve considered that possibility,” she admitted to her coffee cup. “I’ve tucked away some money, opened up a bank account that he doesn’t know about. It wouldn’t buy me a place like this, but it would provide enough funds to rent an apartment.”
“So there’s no other ulterior motive? He’s not drawing up divorce papers as we speak? You’re not digging in your claws now because you’re hopeful I’ll let you move in with me?”
She winced. “Your father and I are not getting divorced.”
The word was spoken like a curse, like the act of dissolving a marriage was a fate worse than death. A small part of me, the one that had detached itself from this moment in time, wondered what Will would have to say about that.
“Then why?”
“Because I never stopped loving you or your sister.”
“You have a funny way of showing it. Where was that devotion when I was arrested? When I got read the riot act in this very house? You were nowhere to be found. You hid from the truth because it didn’t fit into your little mold of what a perfect family looked like.”
“Matthew.”
I put up my hand to stop her. I was on a roll, and she needed to hear this.
“You think divorce is so bad, I can’t even imagine what your society friends had to say about my criminal history. That I made the papers for something other than some d
amn football game, or some letter of intent to a college.”
“You aren’t a criminal. It’s not like you robbed a bank or something.”
“I’m a convicted felon, just like someone who held a gun to someone’s head and ran off with thousands of dollars in cash. Don’t make it sound like I’m better than that. I broke the law. DUI or insider trading or some other shit, it doesn’t fucking matter. I still belong in that category of people. If it wasn’t a big deal, it wouldn’t haunt me every day, now would it?”
“Look, we all have things that we regret. Don’t you think that I’m ashamed of what I did or didn’t do?”
“I’m not sure.”
Her manicured fingers tapped against her coffee cup, seemingly of their own volition. We both watched them for a moment. My attention diverted, I was startled by the sniffling sound that came from her direction. When I looked up, sure enough a single tear had escaped from those familiar blue eyes, trailing down an impossibly taut cheek.
“Nothing that I say will remove the years of hurt that I caused you. I can’t make excuses for my actions. I hope you can understand that I was scared. Scared in a different way than you were, or Blake. You’re right. I wanted to bury my head in the sand and pretend that what was happening then was just some kind of a sick nightmare.”
“Me too, but I wasn’t as lucky as you. I never got to pretend.”
Another sniffle, and her hand reached up to brush away the moisture from her face. Part of me wanted to lean across the counter and do it myself. This was the first show of emotion I’d seen from her in years, and I wanted to believe it.
With a shaky breath, she plodded onward with her apology. “When I finally woke up and decided that this was real, it was too late. It was easier to stay quiet, more simple to distance myself. My fear was no longer what you had done, but how you’d react to me if I showed up one day at the jail for visiting hours and tried to make amends.”
“I would have let you,” I said without hesitation. Because I would have.
Her lower lip trembled. “I’m so sorry. I know that I can’t even begin to make up for lost time. Not now. But I can start fresh. I can be a part of my granddaughter’s life, and hopefully yours and Blake’s too.”
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